


File: Gregory E. Lestrade

by gaylock



Series: Rain [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meeting, Greg is a flirtatious bastard, I swear, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft's Umbrella, POV Mycroft Holmes, Rain, Rain!Verse, all Anthea does is play Flappy Bird, but then again so is Mycroft, cuteness, mystrade, raining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:31:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock
Summary: Rain!Verse: Greg and Mycroft's first meeting from Mycroft's point of view. Basically the entire first chapter of London Rain as told by Mycroft:)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaysandcrime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysandcrime/gifts).



Mycroft examined the file in his hands carefully, taking in every detail, leaving nothing overlooked. His personal assistant sat beside him in the car, tapping at her phone screen. He barely glanced at her (she was playing some inane game) before turning back to the file and humming at the information he found there.

Gregory E. Lestrade, Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. Had a daughter who lived primarily with her mother, had a fairly decent public school education and bulldozed through the police program straight out of school. Had no criminal record (wouldn't have made it to Detective Inspector if he had) and lived in a little flat in a not atrocious part of London.

All of that was standard, and to be completely honest, mind numbingly boring. No, what had really caught Mycroft's attention was the photograph; silver-haired, straight smile, warm brown eyes. And then there was the nonstandard information: divorced (single), enjoyed morning runs around his block, favorite food was lasagna, favorite beverage was beer, enjoyed white but not red wine and owned a motorcycle (a beautiful older model kept in pristine condition) and rode it on his vacation time.

Bisexual.

Mycroft hummed again, his eyes flitting back up to the photograph which was held in place with a paperclip at the top of the file. His eyes spent a minute tracing every line and contour of the mans face before he abruptly shut the file and placed it beside him. His personal assistant (still tapping away at her phone) looked up and stared at him. 

"Lestrade?" she asked, her voice amused although her face was carefully blank.

He narrowed his eyes slightly before smiling genially at her and opening the door to step out, umbrella in hand. "Flappy bird?" he asked right back, and she let out a rare laugh, her fingers still tapping away at her phone. He let the door close behind him and stepped up onto the curb and underneath a street lamp as the black car pulled away. The sky was darkening quickly, with both clouds and night, and he tapped his umbrella against the ground once before flipping it upwards and opening it above his head. It was open just as the first drops fell, and Mycroft allowed himself a moment to feel pleased with his perfect timing; the last time he'd attempted that maneuver, he'd been a half second off.

He watched various cars and cabs roll by, and the world around him slowed down slightly as night truly fell. He checked his watch a couple of times, knowing that the Detective Inspector should be leaving work soon and that he was bound to arrive any minute. As Mycroft stood there waiting he let the sound of the rain sooth his nerves and wanted to scoff at himself. What on earth was he doing having nerves? The meeting was planned perfectly, and he had spent hours studying the man; he had nothing to be anxious about. He was just about to check his watch again (he should have been here by now, it was well past the usual time) when he caught sight of a tall, broad figure walking slowly towards him.

The closer the figure got the clearer it became that they were without an umbrella, and Mycroft felt a flicker of sympathy for them as the rain was very wet and the night very cold. It was only when the man stepped into the light of the street lamp that Mycroft realized who exactly it was. He felt all of his senses come alive with the realization and quickly began studying the man for any signs of a threat. He doubted there would be any problems, but it was a part of the job so ingrained in his mind and body that he didn't bother to stop it; it had saved his life more than once, after all.

The Detective Inspector studied him right back, a wary look in his shadowed eyes and Mycroft knew immediately that the man was more than just good at his job. He had a very calculating look to him, and his broad figure was undoubtedly muscled underneath his (very wet) coat. No, Mycroft did not have to wonder how Gregory Lestrade managed to become Detective Inspector.

At least, he did not feel the need to wonder until the man started to...What exactly _was_ the man doing?

Mycroft cleared his throat. The other man didn't seem to hear him and continued to splash around like a- well, like a child. Mycroft cleared his throat again, louder this time, and finally caught the man's attention.

The Detective Inspector looked up, appearing a little bit sheepish, before seemingly freezing in place. Mycroft waited for a moment, completely caught up in those warm brown eyes which were running up and down his body.

"Uh, hello." The Detective Inspector's voice was warm and inviting (just like his eyes).

Mycroft shivered a bit under the scrutiny and tried to pull himself together. He cleared his throat again and said, "I'm so sorry to interrupt... _whatever_ it was that you were doing...but you _are_ Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, are you not?" He attempted to make his voice as clear and emotionless as he possibly could, but felt he didn't really succeed. He knew Anthea was watching everything through the CCTV and knew he would have to deal with her smug looks and jokes for the next little bit. _Damn._

"Yeah, that's me." He sounded wary, and Mycroft felt a smile lift the corners of his mouth; it was not often he met someone who was aware of the danger he could present, and he was gratified to find that the Detective Inspector was smart enough to consider him a threat.

"I thought as much, but I find it's always best to be sure of such things," Mycroft intoned, slowly removing the glove from his left hand in a very dramatic sort of way. He'd seen someone do it like that on one of those abhorrent spy films Anthea adored so much and knew she'd enjoy seeing the gesture. "I would like to speak to you about your...collaboration at work...with my brother." Mycroft felt his lips twitch again as he held out his hand, being very careful to keep it within the shelter of his large umbrella; he positively _loathed_ pulling leather gloves over wet fingers.

The Detective Inspector was still guarded and did not take his hand, though he did remove his hands from where they had been shoved into his pockets. "Your brother?"

"Ah yes," Mycroft dropped his hand for the moment. "My beloved brother. Thankfully not one of your co-workers, though you do work alongside him, in a sense." He flashed the man a public smile, one he used for business meetings and deals. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, or whatever it is that he's calling himself these days." His hand came back up to rest in the air between them. "Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Detective Inspector." There. That should be dramatic enough to satisfy Anthea; maybe now she wouldn't tease him for his...reaction...to the man in front of him. _Not bloody likely,_ he thought to himself sardonically.

"The pleasure's mine, Mycroft." No, it _really_ isn't, Mycroft thought with a shudder. _Definitely_ mine. "Though please, call me Greg."

Mycroft's brain went on autopilot for a while, his eyes and senses too busy taking in the way water seemed to drip down and highlight the curve of Detective Inspector Lestrade's neck, the pout of his lips, the shell of his ear. He knew that he was talking and that the man was responding, but he wasn't really aware of anything but the way the light made the man's brown eyes sparkle. And then he caught those eyes practically _drinking_ him in, and he felt himself shiver slightly. Oh, it had been _so long_ since he'd been looked at like that, too long.

Mycroft let the Detective Inspector examine him for a few minutes before the silence became a bit too much and he said, "Are you quite done?" He tried to make his voice sound bored but knew there was too much anticipation, too much desire underneath it to make it sound anything but flirtatious. He could feel himself blush (Blush! He hadn't blushed since he was a teenager! What on earth was _wrong_ with him?) and looked down suddenly, pretending to study his gloved hand in order to hide his reddening cheeks.

"Sorry, it's just that, at first glance, it's hard to see the resemblance."

"Hmm. And at second glance?" Mycroft looked back up at the Detective Inspector, trying to figure out if he was insulting him by pointing out how unlike Sherlock he looked. After all, Mycroft was no fool; he was aware that Sherlock was the better-looking man, with his pale, flawless skin and his longer, darker hair. Thin, pouty lips, high cheekbones- yes, it had always been apparent to Mycroft that Sherlock was the brother with the good looks. He felt a tiny flash of disappointment but shoved it down.

"Well, once you look closer, it's really quite obvious, isn't it? I don't know if I ever would have guessed it on my own, me being an average bloke and all. But to be fair, Sherlock really doesn't ever mention you, or any other family for that matter. Mostly just talks about blood consistency and goes on about the world's idiocy."

"Yes, I'm afraid he's never gone out of his way to acknowledge me." Mycroft twisted his lips to hide his frown from showing.

"Yeah, but can you really blame him? Not everyone can win the genetic lottery and turn out stunning, and he's obviously still peeved it wasn't him."

Mycroft's head snapped up and he stared incredulously at Lestrade. The other man looked absolutely mortified and hurriedly apologized, but Mycroft wasn't even really listening, too busy trying to get his brain back on track and his libido under control.

" _Oh my god_ \--I am _so_ _sorry,_ that -- that was..."

He tried to hide his arousal and completely inappropriate lust with a casual comment. "Flirtatious? Inappropriate? Forward?" He felt himself beginning to smile and forced himself to stop. Dear God, was he _flirting?_

"All of the above. God, I'm so sorry."

Mycroft was surprised into a laugh and had to shake his head to get rid of some very inappropriate (and dirty) thoughts. He really needed to do something about his libido. "So you've said. This has been _wonderfully_ illuminating. I look forwards to hearing from you in the future." He forced himself to stop talking (stop _flirting,_ you mean) and reached into his coat pocket quickly to pull out a small business card with his name and a phone number printed on it in black ink. He handed it to the man in front of him. "You may reach me at this number at any time." And please, _do_ call, he thought but dared not say. He felt himself shudder internally when the Lestrade's fingers brushed against his as he took the card.

"Thanks."

He nodded and stepped off of the curb. "Until next time, Detective Inspector." His car rolled to a stop beside him and Anthea opened to door from inside. He slid in and closed his umbrella in one smooth movement (he felt another moment of smugness since he'd been practicing that move for a few days and had finally perfected it), and closed the door behind him. He acknowledged Anthea with a nod of his head and leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed, trying his best to ignore the amused smirk she was giving him from above her phone.

"Not one word, Anthea. Not one word," he murmured quietly, imagining silver hair, a blinding smile and warm brown eyes in his mind. Next time would be soon, he thought to himself as the car drove through rainy London streets. Very soon, if he had anything to say about it.


End file.
